


Carve Your Name On Your Heart And Not On Marble

by sailortaire



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Galatea and Pygmalion AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailortaire/pseuds/sailortaire





	Carve Your Name On Your Heart And Not On Marble

Achilles stared down at his hands. He wondered how he had gotten paint on them- had he been painting last night?

 

It didn't matter.

 

It didn't matter, even if he had been trying to paint the man that he had been seeing every night in his dreams.

 

The man he kept dreaming of was perfect in every way.

 

He was so perfect, he made Achilles’ heart ache. He didn’t know how to live if the man he was in love with wasn’t real.

 

Every morning, when he woke up, he painted.

 

He painted sharp cheekbones, brown hair, and brown eyes. He painted freckles spread across his Adonis’ face, inspired by the stars that appeared as if by magic every night, tightly interwoven with the dark sky.

 

Achilles could imagine the voice of the man he painted; soft yet strong, as smooth as water yet hard as a diamond.

 

He could imagine the laughter of the man, laughter he imagined being strong enough to bring Achilles to his knees in worship every time.

 

He wished he could make the man smile, but he wasn’t real. He would never be real.

 

He had stayed locked in his apartment for days after first dreaming of the nameless man; even more days had been spent wasted while trying to put a name to him.

 

How do you put a name to perfection? It seemed sacrilegious to put a name to his perfection; every name Achilles thought of was not good enough, not worthy enough for his beloved, his Philtatos.

 

Achilles sometimes thought that if his muse had a soul, had flesh, had something more than paper to breathe though, he may find a name.

 

His mother, Thetis- she had told him that his dreams meant nothing, that they were not real, could never be real.

 

Sometimes Achilles knelt on the floor, knees being bruised by the hardness of it, his forehead touching the floor as well. He could feel the coldness of the floor, and it did nothing to make him forget about his dreams, about how much his heart longed for such sweet perfection.

 

 

When he knelt, he prayed. He prayed to Dionysus, begging for sanity, begging for any addiction to replace his own.

 

But mostly he prayed to Aphrodite. He prayed every morning, before he painted, and he prayed every night, before he slowly started touching himself, eventually crying out in ecstasy, not knowing the name of the man who he thought of as he came. Sometimes he cried at night after touching himself, cursing his own name for loving someone that was not real.

 

He prayed to Aphrodite, begging for mercy. He had heard that her son, Eros, had arrows that could make one fall in love as easy as it was to get shot by it.

 

He cried Aphrodite’s name, asking her if she could please, please, oh,Goddess, please, make him love someone, anyone.

 

It’s not like Achilles was unlovable. Whenever he went out of his apartment he could see eyes following him as he walked, eyes hungrily staring at him, men and women both.

  
It’s not like he was unwanted, Achilles screamed to Aphrodite one night, the night when he had, in a fit of rage and passion both, ripped all his drawing and paintings and sketches of the man he loved so dearly, the night he had thrown them into the sea, the sea where he knew Aphrodite had once risen out of.

 

"Here he is!" Achilles remembered screaming as he watched his art sink, "here is my lover, the lover who has been haunting me, the lover who will never love me! Are you jealous, Aphrodite? Are you jealous that I love him?"

 

Achilles fell asleep on top of his bed that night, not even under the covers, exhausted after he had cried until he had no tears left to spare.

 

\---------------

 

Far above Achilles, Aphrodite watched him.

 

She had heard his prayers, and she was moved by his love.

 

She wished she could help him.

 

But how do you help a man who broke himself?

 

A thought made itself clear in the Love Goddesses' beautiful mind, and Aphrodite smiled.

 

\---------------

 

Achilles woke up tucked under a blanket. 

 

"What..." Achilles trailed off as he saw what- _no, who_ \- was standing in front of him.

 

"I am called Patroclus," _the_ man, _the actual_ man _from his dreams_ , said.

 

"Are-are you-" Achilles hesitated.

 

"Real?" Patroclus smiled. "Yes. Aphrodite made me for you, and I am very real," he said, stepping forward and brushing his thumb across Achilles' cheek. "And you are mine."

 

Achilles could feel his heart beating faster and faster, and he felt like it was going to escape from the cage that held it.

 

"I am real," Patroclus repeated, a sad look in his eyes.

 

Achilles let out the breath he hadn't noticed holding, and he reached for Patroclus.

 

Patroclus laughed. "We have all the time in the world," he said, but Achilles didn't care.

 

Achilles pulled Patroclus on top of him, moving his hands under Patroclus' shirt and removing it.

 

He kissed Patroclus softly on the mouth; an unasked question.

 

"Yes," Patroclus said. "I want this."

 

"This," Patroclus said, getting off the bed and taking off the rest off his clothes, "and this," he added, as Achilles practically tore his clothes off in anticipation.

 

Achilles reached for him again, and Patroclus laughed, and his laugh was similar to a chorus of bells.

 

Achilles reached next to the bed and handed Patroclus his jar of lube- he kept it there for nights when he got bored and wanted to feel inside of himself, for night when he pretended that it was the man in his dreams' fingers and not his own.

 

"And this," Patroclus whispered, taking the jar in one hand, the other hand holding a condom.

 

Achilles watched as Patroclus put it on himself, trying not to come just by watching him.

 

"Get on your stomach," Patroclus said, and Achilles hastily obliged.

 

He felt Patroclus crawl on top of him, spreading lube onto the place where Patroclus would enter Achilles' body.

 

Patroclus stretched Achilles out,  moving his fingers around inside, making sure he was loose enough.

 

"Patroclus," Achilles sighed.

 

_Pat-ro-clus._

 

"I know," was all Patroclus said before aligning with Achilles and pushing in.

 

Achilles groaned; a sound reminiscent of the groans he had made when he had felt himself two nights before.

 

"Are you okay?" Patroclus asked nervously.

 

"Yes," Achilles said, sighing. "Don't stop."

 

Patroclus didn't stop, moving so that he was fully inside of Achilles.

 

Achilles waited, trembling.

 

And suddenly Patroclus was pulling out, only his tip inside of Achilles, an he was slamming back inside, finding a rhythm that made Achilles feel like he was being torn apart.

 

 Now Patroclus' moans added to Achilles', as they both started to forget what it was like to not be together like this, not not feel as though they were one.

 

It seemed like an infinitely sacred ritual, this lovemaking, Achilles thought, and suddenly Patroclus came inside of him, barely able to say Achilles' name.

 

Patroclus gently pulled out and took the condom off, laying down beside Achilles.

 

"You have not yet," Patroclus said.

 

"What?" Achilles asked, trying to see through the haze of lust he felt.

 

Patroclus turned him over so that he lay on his back, kissing down Achilles' chest until-

 

Achilles gasped as he felt Patroclus' lips on him, sucking and sucking and-

 

Achilles came, his mouth moving in an inarticulate cry as Patroclus swallowed all of him.

 

Achilles flushed. He had never came that soon before.

 

Patroclus laughed again, moving to kiss Achilles, their tongues exploring each other's mouths.

 

"I am yours," Patroclus whispered.

 

"And you are mine," Achilles said softly, smiling as Patroclus hummed in agreement and fell asleep under Achilles' arm.

 

\---------------

 

Aphrodite cried tears of joy on her throne of roses, clutching Achilles' drawings of Patroclus to her chest.

 

 _"They're perfect,"_ she whispered.


End file.
